It was the golden age of heroes: knights with titles, warriors with legends, leaders who carried banners to the fire.
Among them, an unknown figure appeared in the heart of the battle—unheralded, unpraised, but fearsome.
He wore dark armor without insignia, his body was thin and inconspicuous—but wherever his sword passed, enemies fell like leaves in a storm.
Julius entered the field in disguise at the age of seventeen.
His duel was swift, clean, and emotionless.
He didn't shout or cheer; he just watched.
As his sword struck one opponent, his eyes watched another—analyzing formations, memorizing orders, noticing flaws in Nival's own strategies.
Every night in his tent, he took notes—moves that succeeded, orders that failed, decisions that needlessly risked lives.
To him, it wasn't just war—it was a game of kings, and he refused to be a pawn.
Whispers spread among the surviving heroes:
"Who is that pale warrior who fights like a ghost and vanishes like smoke?"
"I saw him defeat three men without a glance."
"Not one of us… He's something else."
But before they could ask, he was gone.
Julius returned alone, his black steed galloping through the silent dawn toward the capital.
No banners. No ceremony.
Just a mind ablaze with ideas… and a realization:
"Neval doesn't need heroes. She needs a king who understands the art of war better than any general."
From that day on, those who crossed the mysterious warrior's path spoke of him with silent awe.
When Julius was twenty-one, his presence alone was enough to silence any room he entered.
His hair was golden blond, like threads of sunshine, resembling that of his deceased mother, Queen Aliena, whose smile alone was enough to end conflicts.
His pale white face looked as if it were carved from marble—luminous, yet devoid of warmth.
Under his chin flowed a golden beard, like a second crown, adding to his majesty beyond words.
Despite his near-perfect mastery of combat and tactics, he possessed an unquenchable curiosity...
He was fascinated by magic, though the royal court considered it a primitive art or a mysterious threat.
Above all, his thoughts often wandered toward the Ghostly Wood, far to the west—a barbaric land no one dared enter, where the night never ends, and no voice echoes twice.
He kept his curiosity hidden... until now.
One autumn evening, he donned an insignia-less black cloak and slipped stealthily into the Central Chess Club, where professionals, amateurs, and gamblers gathered.
He sat in a quiet corner, watching as usual, until a strange man approached.
His skin was as pale as ice, his hair as crimson as blood, and a wry smile that never left his face—even when he was breathing.
Jestingly, he said, "Would the Great Heir like to play with a humble man like me?"
Julius froze.
How did he know who it was? There was nothing about him that gave away his identity.
Still, he concealed his surprise and replied, "The board doesn't see ranks—only moves."
The man smiled sarcastically.
"Nice words. My name is Fox… I hope you don't mind a little noise."
From the first move, Julius sensed something unusual:
**Fox wasn't taking the game seriously.**
He talked, laughed, and commented on the pieces as if they were characters in a play.
He didn't care for the formality, respect, or calm that Julius was accustomed to during games.
Yet...
**His movements were sharp. Deep. Deadly.**
Each step pulled the ground out from under the prince's feet, little by little, until Julius found himself trapped.
He tried to turn the tables, using strategies from ancient royal texts.
But in the end...
**Fox laughed and said:**
**"Checkmate, Prince of the Sun."**
**Silence fell on the board.**
**Julius stared at him, stunned, speechless.**
**He rose without a word and left the club, winter in his chest.**
**The next day, the guards tried to find "Fox."**
**But the man had **disappeared.**
**It was as if the earth had swallowed him... or as if he had never existed.**
**They searched the roads, the hotels—no name, no sign.**
**A man appeared to break the silence, then faded into the shadows.***